Into the Labyrinth (47 page)

“Go on!” Haplo shouted.

The dog, though seemingly unhappy about leaving him behind, did as it was told. It sped for the woods.

A clunk at Haplo’s left side caused him to look down. The wicked sharp edges of a cat’s paw shone white against the soil. The weapon had fallen short of its mark, but not by much. He increased his speed, using his magic to enhance his body’s strength and stamina. Marit was doing the same.

Hugh the Hand was keeping up gamely when suddenly he pitched forward and lay face down in the dirt. Blood dribbled from a wound on his head. A cat’s paw lay at his side. Haplo veered off course to help. Another cat’s paw whined through the air.

Haplo ignored it. The assassin was out cold.

“Marit!” Haplo called.

She glanced back, first at him, then at their pursuers gaining on them. She made a swift motion with her hand that said,
Leave him! He’s finished!

Haplo had his hand under Hugh’s left shoulder, was dragging the unconscious man to his feet. Marit appeared at the human’s right side. Something struck Haplo in the
back, but he paid little attention to it. A cat’s paw, but it had landed the wrong way, claws outward.

“Join the circle!” he told Marit.

“You’re crazy!” she retorted. “You’ll get us all killed! And for what? A mensch!” Her tone was bitter, but when she looked at Haplo, he was startled and warmed to see grudging admiration in her eyes.

Catching hold of Hugh the Hand, she whispered the runes beneath her breath. The blue and red glow from her body flowed over the human as Haplo’s magic flowed over him from the other side. Hugh the Hand began to stumble forward, legs acting at the magic’s command, not his own. He ran in a sleepwalking stupor, reminding Haplo of the automaton back on Arianus.

Their combined magic kept the human going, but only at a cost to both the Patryns. The forest appeared to be farther off than it had at the beginning of their mad dash. Haplo could hear the tiger-men close behind them now, hear the thud of their paws in the dirt, the low growls and whines of pleasurable anticipation of the kill.

No more cat’s paws were thrown. Haplo wondered why at first, then realized grimly that the beasts had decided their crippling weapons were no longer necessary. The prey was obviously wearing out.

Haplo heard a snarl. Marit screamed a warning; she let Hugh fall. A heavy weight hit Haplo from behind, dragged him down. Fetid breath on his face sickened him; claws tore at his flesh. His defensive magic reacted—blue rune-fire crackled. The tiger-man howled in pain; the weight on top of Haplo lifted.

But if one tiger-man had caught him, others wouldn’t be far behind. Haplo levered himself up with his hands, struggled to regain his feet. He could hear Marit’s shrill battle cries, caught a glimpse of her jabbing at one of the tiger-men with a wooden spear. Haplo drew his dagger as another tiger-man struck him, this time from the side. He and the tiger-man went down, rolling over and over, Haplo stabbing with the knife, the tiger-man tearing at the Patryn’s unprotected face with ripping claws.

A loud booming bark, roaring like thunder, erupted from overhead. The dog had dropped off Alfred, returned to join the fray. Grabbing hold of the tiger-man on top of
Haplo, the dog yanked the beast off and began to shake it back and forth, hoping to break its spine.

And suddenly, astonishingly, Haplo heard calls and yells coming from the forest. Arrows whistled above him; several of the tiger-men shrieked and slumped to the ground.

A group of Patryns emerged from the trees. Hurling spears and javelins, they drove the tiger-men away. Another flight of arrows sent the beasts fleeing back across the plains in thwarted rage.

Haplo was dazed and bleeding; the cuts on his face burned like fire. “Marit,” he said, trying to find her in the confusion.

She stood over the body of a tiger-man, her bloodied spear in her hand. Seeing her unhurt, Haplo relaxed. Several Patryns had hold of Hugh the Hand, and, although obviously perplexed at the sight of a man bereft of tattoos, they were carrying him gently but hastily into the shelter of the woods.

Haplo wondered wearily what they must think of Alfred.

A woman knelt down beside Haplo. “Can you walk? We caught the tiger-men by surprise, but a pack that large will soon get its courage back. Here, I will lend you my help—”

The woman reached for Haplo’s hand to assist him to his feet, perhaps to share her magic with him. But someone moved in front of the woman. Marit’s hand clasped his.

“Thank you, Sister,” said Marit. “He has help already.”

“Very well, Sister,” said the woman with a smile and a shrug. She turned to keep an eye on the tiger-men, who had retreated but were prowling about at a safe distance.

Haplo, with Marit’s assistance, rose stiffly to his feet. He’d fallen with one knee bent at an angle, and when he tried to put his weight on it, pain shot through his leg. Reaching up his hand, he gingerly touched his face, drew his fingers back red with blood.

“You were lucky, the claws just missed your eye,” Marit told him. “Here, lean on me.”

Haplo’s injury wasn’t serious; he could have managed to walk on his own. But he didn’t particularly want to. He
draped his arm over Marit’s shoulder. Her strong arms encircled him, supported him.

“Thanks,” he said softly. “For this and—”

She cut him off. “We’re even now,” she returned. “Your life for mine.”

And though her voice was chill, her touch was gentle. He tried to see into her eyes, but she kept her face averted from his. The dog had transformed back to its normal size, was gamboling happily at his side.

Looking ahead, into the forest, Haplo saw Alfred standing on one foot like an ungainly bird, peering out at them, wringing his hands in anxiety. The Patryns had carried Hugh the Hand into the woods. He had regained consciousness, was already attempting to sit up, waving off both their aid and their baffled and curious inspection.

“We would have made it safely,” Marit said abruptly, “if you hadn’t stopped to help the mensch. It was foolish. You should have left him.”

“The tiger-men would have killed him.”

“But according to you, he can’t die!”

“He can die,” said Haplo, accidentally putting his injured leg to the ground. He winced. “He comes back to life and the memory comes back as well. The memory’s worse than the dying.” Pausing a moment, he added, “We’re a lot alike—he and I.”

She was silent, thoughtful. He wondered if she understood. They had almost reached the edge of the woods. Stopping, she looked sideways at him.

“The Haplo I knew would have left him.”

What was she saying? He couldn’t tell by her tone. Was it oblique praise?

Or denunciation?

THE LABYRINTH

T
HE TIGER-MEN SET UP A HOWL OF DISAPPOINTMENT WHEN THE
Patryns entered the woods.

“If you and your friends can manage to go on a little farther without healing,” the woman told Haplo, “we should push ahead. The tiger-men have been known to follow prey into the forest before now. And in such large numbers, they won’t give up easily.”

Haplo looked around. Hugh the Hand was pale; blood covered his head; but he was on his feet. He couldn’t understand the woman’s words, but he must have guessed their import. Seeing Haplo’s questioning glance, the assassin nodded grimly.

“I can make it.”

Haplo’s gaze shifted to Alfred. He was walking on two feet as well as he ever walked on two feet, which meant that even as Haplo looked at him, Alfred tripped over an exposed tree root. Regaining his balance, he smiled; his hands fluttered. When he spoke, he spoke human. As did Hugh the Hand.

“I took advantage of the confusion … When they went out to help you, while no one was looking, I … well … The idea of riding on the dog again … I thought it would be easier …”

“You healed yourself,” Haplo concluded.

He also spoke human. The Patryns were watching them. They could use their magic to understand the mensch language but they weren’t doing it; probably out of politeness. They wouldn’t need their magic in order to understand Sartan language, however—a language based on
the runes. While they might not like it, they would have no difficulty recognizing it.

“Yes, I healed myself,” Alfred replied. “I deemed it best. Save time and trouble …”

“And unfortunate questions,” Haplo said softly.

Alfred glanced sideways at the other Patryns and flushed. “That too.”

Haplo sighed, wondered why he hadn’t thought of this sooner. If the Patryns discovered Alfred was a Sartan—their ages-old enemy, an enemy that they’d been taught to hate from the moment they could understand what hatred was—there was no telling what they might do to him. Well, Haplo would try to keep up the pretense that Alfred was a mensch, like Hugh the Hand. That would be difficult enough to explain—most Patryns living in the Labyrinth would have never heard of any of the so-called “lesser” races. They all would have heard of the Sartan.

Alfred was looking sideways at Marit.

“I won’t betray you,” she replied scornfully. “At least not yet. They might take out their wrath on the rest of us.”

With a scathing glance at the Sartan, she left Haplo’s side. Several of the other Patryns were moving on, to act as scouts for the trail ahead. Marit joined them.

Haplo dragged his thoughts back to the immediate, dangerous circumstances. “Keep near Hugh,” he ordered Alfred. “Warn him not to mention anything about Sartan. We don’t want to give them ideas.”

“I understand.” Alfred’s gaze followed Marit, walking with several of the Patryn men. “I’m sorry, Haplo,” he added quietly. “Because of me, your people have become your enemies.”

“Forget it,” Haplo said grimly. “Just do as you’re told. Here, boy.”

Whistling to the dog, he began to limp on down the trail. Alfred fell back to walk beside Hugh the Hand.

The Patryns left the two strangers alone, though Haplo noticed that several Patryns took up places behind, their eyes on Hugh and Alfred, their hands never far from their weapons.

The woman—the leader of what Haplo assumed was a hunting party—joined him, walked along beside. She was burning with questions; Haplo could see the glittering light in her brown eyes. But she would not ask them. It was for
the headman of the tribe to question a stranger—even the strangest of strangers.

“I am called Haplo,” he said, touching briefly the heart-rune on his left breast. He wasn’t required to tell her his name, but he did so out of courtesy and to indicate his gratitude for her rescue.

“I am Kari,” she replied, smiling at him, touching her own heart-rune.

She was tall and lank, with the hard-muscled body of a Runner. Yet she must be a Squatter; otherwise what was she doing leading a hunting party?

“It was lucky for us you came when you did,” Haplo remarked, limping along painfully.

Kari did not offer to assist him; to do so would have been an insult to Marit, who had made it clear that she had some sort of interest in Haplo. Kari slowed her own pace to match his. She kept quiet watch as they walked, but she didn’t appear particularly concerned that they were being followed. Haplo could see no indication from the sigla on his skin that the tiger-men were trailing them.

“It was not luck,” Kari replied calmly. “We were sent to find you. The headman thought you might be in trouble.”

Now it was Haplo’s turn to burn with questions, but—out of politeness—he dared not ask them. It was the headman’s prerogative to explain his reasons for doing something. Certainly the rest of the tribe would never consider offering explanations of their own, putting their words into another’s mouth.